


beneath a new sky

by inlovewithnight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Horses, M/M, minimal to no research, references to injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Gabe doesn't have a good woman. He has Erik, who has slipped off and left him alone in the bedroll in the cold of night to check on his fucking ponies.(Vikings retiring to Iceland AU)
Relationships: Erik Johnson/Gabriel Landeskog
Comments: 17
Kudos: 150





	beneath a new sky

**Author's Note:**

> There's an interview with EJ's dad from some random year on the fathers' trip where he talks about how EJ sang as a kid but took a puck to the throat at one point that put a stop to that. That made its way in here as a bit of quiet canon.

The waves slap against the boat in an endless rhythm that should lull Gabe to sleep but doesn’t quite manage it. He has the blanket folded across his face, leaving just enough of a gap that he can blink up at the stars. They're watching him, chill and indifferent as always. He's never felt any tenderness from on high.

The wind is singing in the sails, a more pleasant distraction from the waves. Ísland, Ísland, Ísland, the volcano-born rock that is the boat's destination, the place where they'll all carve a new life out of the stubborn piece of land that holds itself up out of the sea. Gabe's talked to plenty of other sailors who took previous waves of settlers over to the island. He‘s heard all about the gentle summers and vicious winters, the fire that seeps up out of the ground and snakes through the water, the earthquakes and the puffins who‘ll let a man walk right up to them and brain them where they stand. He's heard about the whales dancing in the deep harbor, almost close enough to touch. He's heard how the grass is made for sheep and how a man with a good woman can have a farm that will feed them in less than a handful of seasons.

Gabe doesn't have a good woman. He has Erik, who has slipped off and left him alone in the bedroll in the cold of night to check on his fucking ponies. 

Like the thought summoned the man, he hears Erik's boots crossing the deck toward him. Erik's step is distinct; bad knee, badly-healed broken leg, he doesn't have the stride of his younger days. If the moon was right and Gabe could look up to see him silhouetted against it, the way he carries himself is distinct, too, where his shoulder never healed right and it sits at a funny angle from his body.

They're both older than they used to be, and their bodies ache from a life lived roughly. Still, they survived it. That's all any man can ask for.

Erik lowers himself to the deck with a soft grunt. "Why're you awake?"

"Cold." Gabe shifts so Erik can settle under the blankets again, drawing them around both of their bodies to hold in the warmth. "How are the horses, which are so important you run off and leave me in the middle of the night?"

"They're fine." Erik ignores everything around the question, which means he's either too sore or too tired for an argument. There's nothing he loves better than an argument, so either pain or weariness must be serious; Gabe keeps his mouth shut rather than pushing on. "I just had a funny feeling, so I went to check."

Gabe makes a sign with his hand to ward off witchcraft, but Erik doesn't seem to notice, just drops his head to Gabe's shoulder and sighs. 

"But they're all right?" Gabe asks again after a moment, looking up at those uncaring stars. He's seen them in so many places, over so many waters, after so many battles. Days when he was sure he would die. Days when he was sure Erik would die. Here they are still, sailing for Ísland, where they'll walk away from going a-viking forever.

Erik will raise his horses. Gabe will tend to sheep, or… something. He hasn't entirely worked out what he's going to do. He's spent his life as a leader of men, never having to learn any skills except fighting and sorting out the arguments brought before him by others. Maybe they'll still need people who can do that, in Ísland. Erik seems to think they will, and he's been right before. 

He's been wrong, too, but not very often.

"They're all right," Erik says softly, and Gabe starts. He lost his own question in the wandering of his mind; not good. He slips his arm around Erik's waist under the blankets, pulling him closer, and Erik comes to him easily. "It was just a bad dream, I suppose."

"Go back to sleep, then." The stars are indifferent, but Gabe has spent his life reading time and direction by them; they still have a good stretch of time before dawn. "I think we'll make harbor tomorrow evening, just as planned."

He feels Erik smile against his shoulder, the twist of his mouth over missing teeth. "You don't have to count the days at sea anymore."

"Don't have to, but I don't know why I wouldn't." Not being the captain of the ship is a strange feeling, but he's been trying to keep himself to himself. The captain of this one may barely be more than a boy, but he won the right to it fair and square, and gods know Gabe is done offering up his life for anything made of pitch and timber. He's going to Ísland to mark the end of all that. He'll live in peace now.

Erik breathes out slowly, warm against Gabe's neck. He doesn't sing—Gabe has never heard Erik sing—but he hums, soft songs of home and hearth and the gatherings, when all lay their weapons down. He's hummed those songs for Gabe for so many nights, since after the last battle they fought together, across the sea in Åland. Gabe remembers the pain in his head, the blood that came out of his ear, which still hasn't been right again even this long after. That was when they agreed that they were done with all that. They chose the songs instead.

**

The cluster of buildings around the harbor can't be called a village, but it isn't a city, either. Even a village would have been too large for Erik to want to stay. He wants somewhere with room for his horses to graze, and enough space that strangers coming toward them can be seen with enough time to arm themselves or run.

"We don't have any enemies here," Gabe reminds him. "We're not raiding anymore." But Erik wants what he wants, so they move away from the harbor, heading inland where time and wind and stubborn lichens have softened the lava fields until they relented and gave themselves up to grasses.

Erik safeguarded five horses across the sea: a stallion, three mares, and one colt who he hopes will survive long enough to be a second stallion. He's spoken to the captains who brought earlier settlers over, too, peppering them and their men with endless questions about the horses who've come before. He chose these five to add things of value: height, sturdy hooves, intelligence without foul tempers. It's all nonsense as far as Gabe's concerned, and he turns his bad ear to it most of the time. That's Erik's business. 

One of the men they know at the harbor tells them about a farm a ways inland, land held by a kinsman of his who died in the spring from stomach pain. "Last I checked no one had claimed it," he said with a shrug, handing over the bags of supplies they'd paid him for. "Stone house, a lean-to for the animals. A spring right there nearby. The fences aren't much but you could mend them."

"And how much do you want for the land rights?" Erik asked, eyes narrowed.

The man shrugged again, more indifferent than Gabe could imagine being about land. Things really were different here in the settlement. "I'll collect in a few seasons. Right now I'd just rather it be held by someone trustworthy than taken by someone I'll have to fight off it later."

Erik smiled, the one that made him look half-feral, the one he'd always gotten before a fight or when they entered a tavern. "Still, better set the number now, friend, instead of making it up when you see what we've made of things in a few seasons. Don't you think?"

Their new friend laughed, good-natured about being caught in the act, and even sent them along their way with a few eggs that he swore would hatch if they were kept warm. Gabe carried them down the front of his shirt all the way to the little farm, every jolting step of the way he was forced to ride on one of Erik's miserable little horses. 

The land is everything they'd been promised, though, and it’s almost worth the bruised ass and sore thighs. The little stone house is just enough for the two of them, and the lean-to holds the horses and two chickens who had gone more than a little wild since the prior owner died, but accept the new eggs in their nests fairly enough.

The first night they sleep on the floor, wrapped up in the bedroll just as they had on so many boats for so many years, and shore-nights in between, all the time except the deep winters when they went back to their family homesteads. It never felt right, sleeping without Erik nearby. 

The door had fallen off or been taken away, so the little house is open to the air, which is all right as it’s still summer. Gabe angles the bedroll so he can look out at the stars, and Erik lies down at his back, warm and solid. 

Gabe sleeps better than he normally does without the rhythm of the sea, and he dreams about wind over lava fields blooming in spring flowers. That has to be a good omen.

**

They don't bother with fences; the horses wander in the day but come back at night, drawn home to Erik in some way that Gabe pretends he doesn't understand.

"Is it because you sing to them?" he asks one morning, when he's coaxing eggs out from under the hens and Erik is checking the mares over, running his hands over their bellies in a searching way.

"I don't sing." Erik frowns at one of the mares and moves behind her, tapping her haunches to remind her to mind her manners before he lifts her tail and pokes at her there with the same concentration.

"The humming, then." One of the hens is eyeing him threateningly, and Gabe obediently pulls away. Let her keep her damn eggs another day. The chicks that hatched from about half of the eggs they'd been given at the harbor are wandering around underfoot, squeaking just enough to keep him from stepping on them. Constant bother. "Is that what brings them home?"

"I don't think so. I think it's just that I give them handfuls of grain, when we can spare it… ah, shit, she's definitely lost the foal." Erik sighs and lets the mare go, stepping back and putting his hands on his hips.

Gabe wraps the eggs in a bit of cloth, trying to decipher the grim set of Erik's jaw, the flint in his eyes. "What about the other two?"

"They're still pregnant as best I can tell." Erik turns and wipes his hands on some of the dry grass piled at the back of the lean-to. 

Gabe keeps his voice calm. "Two out of three, then. Not so bad."

Erik doesn't smile, but he nods, and they walk back into the house together instead of him going off to stand on a ridge and stare out in the direction of the shoreline. It's enough for Gabe.

**

They knew that they wouldn't be able to lay in enough for themselves by the first winter, not nearly. They concentrate on cutting and drying grass to store for the horses, and collecting seeds for the hens. They never did manage sheep this year; for the best in terms of what they can feed, but rather the worse in terms of what they'll be able to eat in the deepest cold.

They saddle the stallion and the dry mare to ride back to the harbor for supplies when they can't pretend it isn't autumn any longer. Gabe didn't expect it to be difficult to ride away from the house, especially since they're going toward the sea. He’s spent his whole life wanting to move in that direction, but apparently a few months of a home and hearth that isn't in his father or older brother's name has been enough to change him.

He can't find regret in his heart about it. Yes, it's a change, but it's one he's made with Erik by his side. 

Erik's dropped back behind him, reining his horse in to lean down and examine a low bush growing along a ridgeline. Gabe pulls up his own mount and waits, watching the wind sort through Erik's hair, tossing it back and forth in a pale gold tangle.

"These berries look familiar," Erik says, glancing up. "I think we ate something like this when we were raiding the Rus', do you remember?"

Gabe doesn't remember much besides drinking fiery liquor and fighting a man over a pair of boots. "Could be. You want to gather them?"

"On the way back." Erik nods and nudges his horse ahead again. "That was a good summer, in Rus'."

"That was when you got your shoulder all fucked."

"It was still good, before that." Erik turns his face up to the wind. Gabe fights the urge to touch him, to smooth what the wind tousles, to card his fingers through Erik's beard and pull him close and claim his mouth with his own.

Then again, why should he fight it? They're alone out here, the great near-empty interior of Ísland, and even if they weren't, men who have fought and bled at each other's sides and sworn themselves to each other in battle are allowed their differences from men of the land.

"Erik," he says, and when Erik turns to face him, Gabe lets himself follow his desire, brushing his hand over Erik's hair and then letting it drop to cup his jaw before leaning in for a kiss. Erik meets him with a startled sound, but gives way to the kiss easily, letting Gabe's tongue push into his mouth until he can suck at it.

"We have a long ride ahead of us," Erik says, his voice stern but a smile on his lips. "Are you suggesting we make it even longer by taking a break now?"

"I'm not suggesting anything." Gabe tries to look innocent, even though it's been half a lifetime since that was the case. "You're the one who suggested it."

Erik looks at him for a long moment, then swings his leg over his horse to dismount. Gabe hurries to follow him, tying his reins up out of the way and setting the animal loose to graze. Both horses stand there by the ridgeline, watching them pick their way down to a grassy hollow, and even though Gabe knows it's silly, he feels better once they drop out of view. 

"I feel like they're judging us," he mutters, and Erik laughs, lowering himself carefully to the grass and pulling Gabe down after him. 

"I promise, they have nothing on their minds." His hands are quick and sure, sliding up under Gabe's shirt and then down to work at his trousers. "Me, on the other hand…"

The wind coming in off the water and sweeping over the interior is cold enough to keep them from lingering, even down in the hollow. They know each other well enough that quick and efficient can still be good; it was necessary aboard ship for all that time. At least here in the grass they don't have to muffle each other's noises with flat palms or mouths stuffed full of cloth or biting down on each other's arms and shoulders. Gabe can let himself cry out knowing no one will hear but the horses and the birds. 

They reach the harbor later than they meant to, but before the sun goes down, so they didn’t lose enough to worry about. The handful of men they call friends there remember them, take them in, and feed them well. The laws of hospitality run deep on Ísland, where there’s nowhere to go if turned away from the firelight.

They stay for two days, looking out over the water that's crowded with ships spending the winter here at the settlement. Once or twice, Gabe turns to Erik with the question at the tip of his tongue— _Do you miss it? Do you wish we hadn't come here to stay?_ —but the look on Erik's face stops him. Erik doesn't look at the ships with longing, but with the kind of grim acknowledgment a man might show an enemy who knocked him down but chose not to strike the killing blow.

So Gabe holds his tongue, and when they ride away from the harbor on the third morning, he doesn't say anything about Erik's tight jaw and flinty eyes. They don't stop for the berries after all, but ride straight through, hauling their winter supplies home in silence.

**

Even with the supplies, they aren't prepared for the winter.

Both of them had spent every winter of their lives either tucked away in a foreign city, drinking away any worries and being tended by the people they'd conquered, or in their families' homesteads, solidly built halls that had stood against the weather for generations. Now they're in what's more of a hut than a house, barely ten years old, braced against the icy wind and rain in the middle of a great lava flat, and they are alone. 

They bring the chickens inside to keep them alive, and not long after that the horses, too, for warmth. That's what gets them through it, Gabe thinks: the presence of five sullen, semi-cooperative beasts, two of them heavily pregnant, bodies putting off enough heat to make up for what's lost through the little gaps between the stones. 

Whenever the weather breaks, and it's cold but clear outside, they let the horses out to exercise, clean up the top layer of the miserable mess inside, and restock with water for them all and dried grass for the animals. They drag new chunks of turf and peat in from the lean-to to keep the fire going, and air out the blankets to be ready for the next round of storms. 

They have to ration the food carefully, making sure the pregnant mares eat first. They'll kill one of the stallions or the fallow mare if they have to, but so far it hasn't come to that. Gabe can't see his own face, but he watches how Erik is being pared down to bones and sinew, all sharpness and angles. The fire in his eyes hasn't dimmed, though. Erik will fight the winter with as much determination as any enemy in his life. 

They're sitting one night at the beginning of another storm, leaning against the wall by the fire, blankets wrapped around them both. They've had to fight all five horses for this little bit of space, and it's still subject to constant incursions by the chickens. Gabe's always on guard against feathers up his nose or a sharp beak checking if his face is edible.

Erik has a drop spindle in one hand and a clump of messy wool he bought at the harbor in the other. He's been trying to teach himself to spin all winter, and the few hands-breadths of yarn wrapped around the spindle show how well his efforts are turning out. "It shouldn't be this fucking difficult," he says for the hundredth time.

"Women train at it since childhood, Erik." Gabe watches the dull glow of the fire—not much of one, they can't spare the fuel, but at least it's still alive. "You've got to compare it to that."

"I think women have smarter hands." He sighs and sets it aside, leaning in to rest his head on Gabe's shoulder. "It's past the solstice, you know."

Gabe blinks. "Is it?" He knows he should have been keeping track, but the whole idea of time had slipped through his hands a few storms ago.

"Mm. Sun's coming back. The horses know it. The birds certainly do." He smiles; Gabe can't see it, but he can feel the shift of Erik's face against his beard. "We may survive our first winter yet, my love."

It's not a word that comes easily from Erik's mouth; Gabe can think of only one other time he's heard it, and that was when they were both very sure they were going to die that night. He can tell from the twist of Erik's mouth that he doesn't hide his surprise now, even in the near-blackness of the house. 

He reaches out, not sure if it's in apology or just a sudden need to touch, finding Erik's hand and holding it loosely in his own. Their hands are clumsy against each other, both callused and rough from years of raiding and sea life, fingers swollen at the joints and twisted here and there where they were broken and healed only as best they could. Still, there's no question in Gabe's mind that they fit.

"I'm glad," he says finally, and whether he means that they might survive, or something else, something larger, even he isn't sure. But they sit there in silence for a long time, hand in hand, listening to the soft breathing of the horses and the cry of the wind outside.

**

Spring comes along in good time, as it must. The grass comes up, a smudge of green over the ground at first and then a lush blanket, marked with bright patterns of low-clinging flowers. Gabe can't remember ever seeing such a thing as the springtime ground of Ísland. It stops his breath in his chest, for a moment.

Erik spends long hours with the horses, following them as they graze to get a sense of how far they might wander after the winter inside. He fixes up the storm-battered lean-to, adding a new roost for Gabe to settle the chickens in. The last year's chicks have grown into themselves, two more laying hens and a puzzled young rooster, enough to keep them in eggs and meat another season.

Gabe knows that Erik is waiting for foaling, hoping for healthy babies that might survive to weaning, when they can be traded for valuable supplies. A little later in the spring, use of the stallions can be swapped for more supplies, or future favors. Their fragile plans, only a bit more rooted than dreams, might still turn out, letting them stay here in this new and unbounded place, instead of either lying down to die on the ridges or making their way back to their family homesteads in quiet shame.

Gabe won't go back. It's the ridges or slipping under the waves for him; he won't live out his days bowing his head to his brother. 

He's lingering in the house one afternoon, while Erik is out walking along behind the horses. He still hasn't found the task to occupy himself for the rest of his time here; he tends the chickens, he cooks for the two of them, he keeps the house as much as it's possible. Since Erik has been out so much, he's toyed with that damn spindle a bit, and he might have more of a knack for it than Erik. He's made almost as much decent yarn in far less time.

A shadow falls over the floor, and he looks up to find Erik in the doorway, hair wild in the breeze, a smile on his face that Gabe hasn't seen in a long time. "Come look," he says, his voice low and urgent. "We owe a sacrifice to the land wights tonight. They've given us a blessing." 

Gabe follows him out over the nearest ridge, then another, and finds the horses standing in a rough huddle near where one of the mares is nosing at her foal, still messy and sticky with the effort of being born. 

"Healthy as far as I can tell," Erik says, beaming as if he was the proud father himself. "Got to her feet and started nursing just as soon as she could. If she lives out the day I think we can count on her to make it."

Gabe finds Erik’s hand and squeezes it, smiling at the little creature who stands for their chance at a future here. Erik hums under his breath, another of the old songs that Gabe recognizes as one belonging to spring and rebirth and all things new. Of course that’s the first thing he would reach for now.

"Do you think the other one will be ready soon, too?" Gabe asks, looking over at the other mare, her belly looking as broad as a boat as she chews at the grass. 

"The next day or two, is my best guess." Erik bites at his thumbnail, eyes still fixed on the foal. "I want to drive them back toward the house, but maybe I should let them be for a bit."

"I think so." Gabe sits down carefully, tugging at Erik's hand until he joins him. "You mentioned sacrificing to the wights, but I'm not sure we have anything to spare, just now."

Erik raises an eyebrow at him. "That's part of what makes a sacrifice worth anything."

"Maybe instead of blood and flesh we can give them something else." He reaches out deliberately, running his hand down Erik's chest to his torso, until his fingers span wide over Erik's navel and the heel of his hand rests meaningfully lower. 

Erik looks at him for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs, a sound from another time that somehow fits perfectly here, in this moment. "I don't know if the wights will fall for your little trick, but you've got my attention, at least."

"Glad for that," Gabe mutters, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in his face, but it's worth it to lean in close and claim Erik's mouth, to guide him down on his back in the grass with Gabe braced on top of him, their bodies warm and solid against each other. It's easy, too, so easy; they've known each other so long, the workings of each other's body and mind alike. There's never any mystery here.

Erik divests Gabe of his trousers easily, his hands warm and gentle on pale skin exposed to the sun. "There you are," he says in a low voice, dragging his palm down the length of Gabe's cock. "Been a while since I've seen you."

Gabe rolls his eyes, fighting back laughter. They'd rutted against each other in the blankets over the dark stretches of the winter, but the cold made being naked less than attractive. "It didn't run off to sea, I promise."

"That's a relief." Erik wraps his hand around him properly and strokes in slow, careful movements that make Gabe's eyes flutter closed. "Would be a shame to lose such a handsome fellow."

Gabe shakes his head and leans down to kiss him, stopping the flow of words before the metaphor can get any more absurd. Erik's hands feel so good, one on his cock and the other resting on his hip, warm and steadying. Gabe reaches between them to get Erik's trousers unlaced as well, fumbling inside them until he can guide Erik's cock out into the air.

"Want this," Gabe says against Erik's mouth, squeezing his cock a bit for emphasis. Erik's breath hitches, his hips jerking under Gabe's weight, and he nods, pushing Gabe back a little.

It takes a bit of spit and patience, but Gabe finally is able to sink down and take Erik inside him, hissing at the stretch and burn until his body catches up to itself and he can begin to move. Erik guides his hips, fingers pressed to the juts of bone made sharp by the winter. Gabe closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the sun wash over his face, his thoughts scattered pieces like spring ice on the water, memories and ideas of the future and the raw sensations of the now all mixed up together.

Erik's voice is low and urgent, a flow of words Gabe can't follow, only catching bits and pieces—thanking the gods, calling him beautiful, asking for more. They're not at sea anymore, or a raiding camp; there's no one here to overhear them but the horses. Still, old habits cling tightly, and Gabe sinks his teeth into his lower lip, holding himself silent as he rocks over Erik's body.

The hands on his hips tighten and Erik thrusts up hard just before Gabe feels heat pulse inside him. A moment later Erik's hand is wrapped around Gabe's cock again, stroking him over the edge of his own orgasm. 

Gabe opens his eyes, looking up at the painfully blue sky for a moment before moving off of Erik and getting to his feet. Erik looks up at him, one eyebrow lifting in question as Gabe strips off the rest of his clothing and tosses it down in the grass. 

"Get up," Gabe says, offering his hands. Erik's bad leg threatens to buckle, but he gets his footing after a moment. 

"Should I undress too?" he asks, a jerk of his chin encompassing Gabe's body, pale and coming up in gooseflesh in the breeze. "I assume there's a reason." 

"We've been all winter without a decent bath. I can't stand another minute." He waits while Erik starts to grin and then strip off his own clothing. "Race you to the spring?"

"I can't keep up with you on my best day," Erik says drily. "But feel free to run on ahead and get started and when I catch up I'll see if your cock breaks off like an icicle."

Gabe laughs and takes off at an easy jog, earning startled snorts from the horses until he crosses the ridge and passes out of their sight. The spring is back toward the house, and he covers the ground easily, letting the fresh air fill his lungs like it can clear away all of the detritus of the winter.

Erik wasn't wrong; the water still has ice at its edges, and the cold makes him gasp in shock. It's not deep or broad enough to submerge himself, but he gathers double handfuls of water and attends to his body in sections, washing away the stale sweat and dirt and smell of the winter months. 

"You're turning blue," Erik says when he joins him, their clothing bundled under one arm. "And it's definitely going to break off. Too bad, I'll miss it." 

"It's fine. I'm fine." Gabe gathers another handful of water and pours it over his head, shuddering. "I should've run back for a blanket first, though. Going to freeze just on the way back."

"You'll just have to run like trolls are after you. Maybe giants." Erik tosses the clothing aside and joins Gabe at the spring, bending carefully to splash water on his face with a string of curses. Gabe smiles despite himself, working the water through to the roots of his hair and then ducking to wet it again. 

They don't linger; once they're both somewhat clean, they soak the clothes in the spring for a few moments and then spread them out on the grass to dry in the sun before turning back to the house. Gabe goes at a dead run as instructed, taking one blanket to wrap around himself and bringing another back to meet Erik halfway. 

They sit outside the house in a patch of grass, wrapped in the rough wool that smells of horses and sweat and winter, watching the breeze stir the grasses and flowers. "Does it feel like home here?" Erik asks after a while. His voice is soft, muffled, and when Gabe glances over he sees that Erik has the edge of his blanket pulled up to his nose, and his eyes are fixed on the horizon, far away. "Or will that always be the sea?"

Gabe waits for a moment, weighing his words. "It's starting to," he says finally. "More than it was. I think it will grow, given time." 

Erik turns his head to study Gabe for a moment, most of his face still hidden under the blanket but his eyes giving so much away in how they go from sharp and assessing to almost warm. He nods and looks out at the horizon again, tracking the ridge where the horses should cross to come in for the night.

"I know this isn't what you wanted," he says finally, and Gabe starts, drawing the blanket tighter around himself. "You wanted to die in battle, a seat in Valhalla, all of that."

Gabe doesn't know what to say, and the silence stretches out painfully before he manages to respond. "I think that's what we're all brought up to want."

"Plenty of men come home from the sea." Erik's voice is still low. "They tell the stories that get made into songs. They form the heart of the hall. They raise the next generation of boys who'll go a-viking and hope to call themselves heroes."

"That's… that's true." Gabe remembers the old warriors in the hall he grew up in, men with scars and missing limbs and great gaps where their teeth used to be, like Erik. He clung to every word of their stories. He never thought about how they were there in the hall instead of serving in Valhalla.

Erik rubs at his bad shoulder, pressing his thumb against where Gabe knows it still aches the most. "I think…" He trails off, blinking, then looks at Gabe again. "I think it's not so bad, being alive." Gabe's breath catches in his throat, and Erik keeps watching him steadily. "Is it?"

"No," Gabe says, shaking his head. "It's not so bad at all."

"We'll go to the harbor, this summer. People will ask for your stories, and your judgment." Erik's voice isn't so low now, but it's dreamy, like perhaps a vision has fallen over him. "In time they'll come looking for you here, too. We'll be part of this land. When we die we'll sink down into it, just like we would have at sea." He stops, his brow furrowing. "I think that's a good life, and a good ending. Not Valhalla, but… I don't fear it."

Gabe rest his head on his knees for a moment, wrapping himself around the heat and pressure in his chest. It's too much, too much, things he never allowed himself to look at or think about. Were they the things that filled Erik's mind when he lay healing after all those battles? Did he have all that time to let them sink into his heart, while Gabe has only this moment, now?

He feels the blanket move away from his arm, and Erik's hand finds his, weaving their fingers together deftly. "Sorry," Erik murmurs. "I think too much, sometimes."

"It's all right." Gabe forces himself to lift his chin, turn his head, meet Erik's eyes. "It would be a good life. I just need to let that idea grow, too. Give it time."

Erik squeezes his hand and then lets go, carefully unfolding himself from the ground. "I need to put on clothes before my ass freezes directly to the ground. Come inside, we can sit by the fire until I need to bring the horses home."

The sun is still at mid-sky height; there are good hours until then. "What will we do to pass the time?"

Erik smiles, soft around his eyes. "You tell the old stories, and I'll hum the songs."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Watershed" by Magnus Sigurdsson, translated from the Icelandic by Meg Matich.
> 
> Watershed
> 
> A flood of thoughts  
> has washed me  
> ashore.
> 
> Out of earshot.
> 
> Beneath a new  
> sky.
> 
> And now I plant
> 
> in an untouched  
> field.


End file.
